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CHAPTER XXVII
ONLY THE FOOL

Roger Herrick signed the last of the papers upon his table, and leaning back in his chair looked at Lemasle, who had entered the room a few moments before. Jean squatted in his favorite attitude on the floor beside Herrick's chair.

"Yes, yes, Lemasle, all you say is true. While they live, some men will plot and scheme, but to me this seems no reason why I should kill them."

"Sir, once before I said you were too lenient; was I wrong?"

"No; you were right, yet I would be lenient again. Do I disappoint you, Lemasle?"

"Only in this, sir. Justice and expediency demand that traitors should pay the penalty of their treachery."

"There must be something wanting in my nature to make me an ideal Duke."

"Sir, Montvilliers is proud of her Duke, and every day, every hour, the people grow to love you better."

"Surely then we can afford to be lenient," said Herrick.

"Not to traitors," Lemasle answered promptly. "Count Felix despised your leniency. De Bornais, whom you trusted, rebelled, and would have sold his country."

"And Mademoiselle de Liancourt?" asked Herrick quietly.

"She is a woman, sir."

"And is a woman never a traitor?" asked Herrick.

"At least Mademoiselle loves her country, and perhaps – " The captain paused, and looked at Herrick.

"Well, Lemasle?"

"The sentence is best left unfinished, but women's love finds strange ways of revenging itself if it is scorned," said the Captain.

Herrick did not answer, but Jean, either of set purpose or by accident, made his bells jingle for a moment.

"I would once more urge stringent measures, sir," Lemasle went on after a pause. "The people expect it. They look for such measures to bring peace to the country. You are reluctant to let justice take its course, and it may be that I understand something of your mind in this, but, if I may advise, why not postpone judgment? In a few days the nobles will be assembled in Vayenne, let them decide against the Count and de Bornais as they will. Have they not often in times past been summoned to give decision in such a case? Why should you give judgment to-day?"

"Because, Lemasle, I fear the justice of the nobles," Herrick answered. "My orders must stand. See that the prisoners are brought into the hall. And, captain, think presently of some honor you covet, and it shall be yours. If we are slow to condemn, we would be quick in our rewards."

"Sir, your trust, your friendship almost, leaves me covetous of little else."

"Yet think, Lemasle. Dukes die, or are deposed, it is well to take something off them while they have the power to give. We will talk of this again."

Lemasle saluted, and withdrew.

"What would that good soldier say if he knew?" mused Herrick.

"I wonder," said Jean.

"I had forgotten you," said Herrick, with a start. "Did I put my thought into words?"

"You spoke, friend Roger, and have still some secrets, it would seem."

"Many, Jean. I will tell you one. I am not fitted to be a Duke."

"In that matter, at least, I should leave others to be the judges," said the dwarf.

"None can judge a man so well as he can judge himself if he will only be honest," Herrick returned. "I spoke inadvisedly, Jean, the other day, and it has quickly resulted in tragedy. Would I had been in time to save Father Bertrand."

"You avenged him," said Jean.

"And for my action stood reproved by one of my own soldiers. My own words were quoted against me."

"Yet the priest was a rebel," said the dwarf slowly. "There is much in what Captain Lemasle says."

"True, but there are always other points of view besides our own. Even dukes have no monopoly in such a thing as truth. I have tried to do a great deal, Jean, and I have succeeded in discovering how much better I might have done."

"That's a complaint common to all honest men, friend Roger, and as a wise man you will be thankful that you have done no worse. Have you not saved this land from herself and from her enemies? Are not your foes easily learning to become your friends? And love itself stands without, only waiting for the opening of the door."

"Open it, Jean."

"That I cannot do," answered the dwarf. "You alone can do that, but I can show you the way."

"Speak, my wise philosopher."

"Oh, it's no work for a philosopher. Even a fool finds it easy. You have but to learn wisdom out of your own mouth, and remember that there are other points of view beside your own, and that a woman usually sees these points better than any one else. Would it surprise you to learn that in you pride and self-will somewhat mar an otherwise excellent man?"

"Or come in to make my true character, my real self," said Herrick.

"Put it so if you will; mine was a gentler way," said Jean. "I would save you from yourself."

Herrick remained thoughtful for some considerable time, and Jean did not interrupt his reverie.

"I have staked out my course, Jean; I must run to the finish of it," he said, suddenly standing up, and giving the impression that he shook himself free from his thoughts as a dog shakes the water from him when he scrambles upon the bank after his swim.

"It may be a good course," said the dwarf, rising from his cross-legged position.

"And if not?"

"Disaster perhaps, but whatever comes I shall always love you."

"Love me, Jean?"

"Why not? Love's a big word, I know, but it is the right one. Trust came when I sent my knife skimming across the stone floor to your feet that night in the South Tower. We've travelled far since then, friend Roger. There has been friendship between us, different though we are, and on your side a little pity perhaps for these twisted limbs of mine. I have gone a step farther. Yes, love is the right word."

"I think it is, Jean," said Herrick, putting his hand on the dwarf's shoulder.

The next moment Jean had caught Herrick's hand, and kissed it as he fell upon his knee.

"Sir, I thank you for the greatest honor it is even in your power to bestow."

"And, Jean, I do not like the fool's motley for you," said Herrick, bending over him. "You shall change it presently."

"As you will," said the dwarf, rising, "yet it seems to fit this queer body of mine."

"And outrages the great heart that it holds. Come. These prisoners must be judged."

"For the present I still sport the scarlet and green," said Jean, making his bells jingle. "We are both public characters. The Duke and his fool. Bother gossips."

Three days had passed since Herrick returned to Vayenne, and in this time order had been restored in the city, and the Duke was a popular hero. With the return of the soldiers, definite news of what had taken place upon the frontier began to be known. The people were proud of their Duke, and were ready to cry confusion to all his enemies. Father Bertrand had paid the penalty of his treachery, and they were glad of it. They fully expected that a like justice would be meted out to both Count Felix and de Bornais, but they were in no mood to dispute the Duke's will. He could do no wrong.

There was no uncertain sound in the cheers which greeted Herrick as he entered the hall with the dwarf. A few of the nobles had already come to the city, and were near the dais. Many officials about the castle and in the city were in the hall, and a strong force of soldiers. Count Felix and de Bornais stood at a little distance from the dais, and near them sat Christine de Liancourt. Only the fact that Lemasle and the guard were with drawn swords showed that they were prisoners. As Herrick seated himself upon the dais, Jean sank cross-legged on the lowest step, his bauble lying across his knees.

"There has been bloodshed upon the frontier, there has been bloodshed in the city," said Herrick, breaking the silence which had fallen upon the assembly. "The responsibility rests in varying degree with the prisoners, and with Father Bertrand, who has already been slain by the people. I say the responsibility is in varying degree because I have learned the truth from one Mercier, a tool of Father Bertrand's and himself a schemer. Montvilliers is not his native land, however, and therefore the basest of treachery is not his crime. It was not his own country he betrayed, therefore he has his freedom. Nor would we omit the fact that our presence in Vayenne has fallen hardly upon two of the prisoners. We have sought to weigh every circumstance in arriving at our judgment."

There was a pause, and not a sound stirred in the hall.

"Christine de Liancourt."

As Herrick spoke her name she stood up almost involuntarily, and looked fixedly at him. Her head was held erect, but the defiance that had so often been in her bearing was not there to-day. Perhaps it was Roger Herrick she saw rather than the Duke.

"Mademoiselle de Liancourt, you have had the opportunity of knowing most of the circumstances which led to our ascending this throne. You have misjudged those actions from the first, and have proclaimed yourself our enemy. You warned us that those who plotted should find an easy tool in you, and they have. You were to marry Count Felix, you were to reign with him as Duchess, equal to him in power. Your country's good may have been in your mind, but it was a less incentive perhaps than your hatred to us. But when Father Bertrand schemed with you he had other ends in view. This Mercier was dispatched to the frontier, where long since the enemy have been waiting to strike at this country. A religious fanatic, this priest was selling Montvilliers to her enemies, and using your marriage, your coronation, to stir up further civil strife, and thus render the project easier of accomplishment. This has been his scheming for years. The weaker the power of the Duke, the less resistance to the enemy."

Both Christine and Felix had started at the mention of Father Bertrand's schemes.

"It is evident that you were innocent of all knowledge of such a betrayal," Herrick went on, "but the state must guard against the danger of such unconsidered actions as yours. Three days hence you will depart under escort to the Château of Passey, there to remain until it is our pleasure that you return to Vayenne. Those in Passey have our orders to see to your welfare and safe keeping."

Christine bowed her head, and spoke no word. Retirement to the Château of Passey was no great punishment, but there was bitterness in her heart that she had played into the hands of her country's enemies. In thwarting her this man had saved Montvilliers. Surely he was a worthy Duke, and he was Roger Herrick.

"Count Felix, to you also the news of this scheming comes as a surprise," said Herrick, "and truly for plotting against us you have much excuse. The plot against your cousin was of another kind, and were you justly heir to this throne, your own subjects have decided against you. You possess an estate in the south of Montvilliers. To that estate you are confined. You may win ultimate pardon, but I warn you that any attempt to escape will mean death."

The Count did not speak. Neither by look nor gesture did he show that he had heard what had been said to him.

"You, de Bornais, have been guilty of a greater crime – treachery to your country," Herrick went on, and a low murmur like a sullen growl sounded through the hall. "How far religious fervor prompted you, I cannot judge, but this I am sure of, that no religion can serve as excuse for betrayal of country."

The growl became articulate.

"Down with de Bornais! Death to him!"

"Yet we cannot forget that even in the middle of your plotting you hated the part you felt called upon to play." And Herrick raised his voice almost as if he were pleading the prisoner's cause to those who had shouted for his death. "This also has Mercier told us; and more, we do not forget that the other day before St. Etienne you refused to speak the word that would have meant almost certain death to us."

"Long, long live the Duke!" was the enthusiastic cry. "Repentance had come to you, and pardon ever runs at the heels of repentance. Yet cannot the crime be forgotten or go unpunished. Within three days you must cross the frontier and never return. The whole world is free to you save only this State of Montvilliers."

"Sir, I am leniently dealt with," de Bornais answered. "My life will be one long regret."

It was over. Judgment had been given. The tension was relaxed. It was the moment one man had waited for. Herrick had descended two steps of the dais, when Count Felix sprang from his guards.

"Death rather than submission to this adventurer!" he cried, and with one bound had rushed upon Herrick. The dagger he had concealed was in his hand. The attack was so sudden and unexpected that Herrick slipped upon the steps. The dagger flashed down, but there rose to meet it a mass of scarlet and green, a mass that hurled itself upward at the weapon, and there was a jingling sound of bells.

The next moment Felix was dragged backward and thrown to the floor. A dozen sword points were at his throat, and even at Herrick's quick command, were scarcely stayed.

"Jean!" cried Christine, throwing herself on her knees beside the dwarf.

"Mademoiselle!" came the answer, and how faint it was. The dagger had done its work only too well.

Herrick was kneeling beside him too, and the heads of the man and woman almost touched over the dwarf. "Love," Jean said faintly. "It was the right word, friend Roger." And then he sighed, and lay quite still.

"Oh, he's dead," whispered Christine, "and to save you!"

The crowd were pressing round the dais now. The Duke was alive. They had seen him fall, had feared the worst, and a great wave of relief came as they knew the truth. The shout went up and echoed along the corridors, gladness in it, for the Duke was alive.

"Thank God! It's only the fool!"

CHAPTER XXVIII
THE SUBMISSION OF MADEMOISELLE DE LIANCOURT

They buried Jean in the great Church of St. Etienne, as was fitting, and a whole city mourned him. He had passed in and out amongst them, there was hardly a man, woman, or child in Vayenne who had not known him, now his place was suddenly empty. Some had laughed at him, some with him; some had pitied him; and a few, understanding him better, had loved him. To-day the whole city mourned and honored him, and a great silent crowd was in the streets as he passed to his last resting place, to sleep for ever in that beautiful House of God where he had so often crept in to sleep at night. Soldiers saluted as he passed, and men remembered what he had done for the city that he loved, crowning his good work by giving his life for the Duke's. "It's only the fool!" they had cried in their first gladness that the Duke had not been struck down, but now there was a sense of regret almost that they had expressed their gladness in such words, words which seemed to mark the loss as a trivial one. They recognized that the loss was a great one, that Vayenne would be the poorer without that strange misshapen figure in its streets.

And chief among the mourners stood the Duke himself, and those about him saw that the strong man who seemed to know no fear, to whom, as they believed, all sentiment and love were unknown, wept. They spoke no more of the Duke's fool, but of the Duke's friend. They understood Jean better now, and perhaps they understood the Duke better, too, as they returned homeward.

A solemn city to-day, yet over it the carillon laughed its constant message. Time passeth into Eternity, and Time is a little matter. Always Jean had understood something of the meaning of the message. He had a fuller understanding now.

Jean's death had one marked effect upon the people's mind. Three days since they had accepted the Duke's judgment upon the prisoners without a murmur, and, if they were inclined to think it too lenient, they realized that mercy has its part in justice, and were content. They were still content to exonerate Mademoiselle de Liancourt from any part in deep-seated treachery, but they were loud in their demands that Count Felix should die the death of a traitor, nor was their fury against de Bornais much less. The Duke remained firm in his purpose with regard to de Bornais, who had left the city two days ago to the accompaniment of hisses and execrations from the assembled multitude. Only a strong force of soldiers had procured his safe passage through the streets. Now Jean's funeral had further inflamed the people's anger against the Count, who remained a close prisoner in the semi-circular cell in the South Tower. There was no loose bar in the window high up in the wall any longer, there was no Jean to come to his deliverance. Indeed, it was the safest refuge the Count could have, for in their present mood the populace would have torn down any less well defended prison to get at him.

Very sad at heart Herrick had returned to the castle after Jean's funeral. He had been met on all sides with loud demands for the Count's death. It seemed suddenly to have become the one question of importance. Many more of the nobles had come to Vayenne, and they, too, advised his speedy execution. He had added murder to treachery. No further mercy ought to be shown him.

Herrick sat alone thinking of Jean. Something had gone out of his life with the quaint figure with which he had become so familiar. He had never liked the motley, yet, as Jean had said, it seemed to suit somehow his outward appearance. Herrick would have given much to see the door open quietly and to hear the jingle of the bells. Clad in that gaudy green and scarlet, Jean had been a very wise counsellor, and Herrick missed his wisdom and advice every hour.

"I had not been so good a Duke as I am had it not been for Jean," he murmured.

The door did open presently, quietly too, but it was Lemasle who entered.

"You have not forgotten that Mademoiselle de Liancourt rides to Passey this afternoon, sir."

"No, captain. You will take a strong force. There may still be robbers on the Passey road, but not of the kind you and I have had experience of."

"Am I to return with my men from Passey at once?" asked Lemasle.

Herrick was thoughtful for a few moments.

"No," he said slowly. "Viscount Dupré has certain instructions concerning the – the prisoner, and will decide when it is advisable for you to return. Be guided entirely by him, Lemasle."

The captain regarded him curiously for a moment.

"Sir, you surely do not intend – " Then he stopped, partly because of the absurdity of the idea that had suddenly come into his mind, partly because of the expression in the Duke's face.

"I do nothing without careful consideration, Lemasle," said Herrick. "Though I seek to serve the state, I am despot enough to do it in my own fashion."

"Pardon, sir; instead of simply obeying orders, I was presuming to try and understand."

"To understand what, captain?"

"Your purpose regarding Mademoiselle."

"She is a prisoner sent to the Château of Passey," Herrick answered. "Is it too lenient a punishment? It is a dull place, Passey, likely to break the high spirits and proud defiance of any woman. Is there not some vindictiveness in my action in this matter?"

"And afterward, sir?"

"Ah, my good friend, so you would look through the Duke into the heart of the man," said Herrick, with a smile. "The passing hours must bring the afterward as they will; but this much of my heart you may know: I send Mademoiselle to Passey guarded by the man, the one man I trust as I would trust myself – Gaspar Lemasle; yet even he would be a fool to enter Vayenne again should harm befall Christine de Liancourt. She is dear to me, dear as my own soul; know, therefore, Lemasle, how I trust you."

"Your words prophesy summer weather for this land of Montvilliers," said the captain quickly. "If only – "

Herrick looked at him as he paused.

"I would to heaven my sword had been thrust deeply into the Count's throat the other day before your sharp command had had time to hold it back," the captain burst out.

"Truly he is a great difficulty," said Herrick.

"Let him die, sir. No man ever merited death more. The whole city demands it."

What would Jean have said? Herrick found himself glancing down at the floor beside his chair, caught himself listening for the jingle of bells. There was no sound, there was no quaint little figure seated beside him.

"For a few days longer he must live," he said suddenly. "He is a pawn in the game, and must keep his place on the board. He shall be judged, Lemasle. Rest assured, he shall be judged. Has not a man, because of him, died for me?"

The captain had turned to go, fully satisfied that the Count's fate was sealed, when the door opened, and a messenger entered.

"Sir, Mademoiselle de Liancourt prays that she may see you before she leaves the castle."

"I will come to her at once," Herrick answered, and the messenger withdrew.

The prompt answer, the sudden change in Herrick's face, the alertness of his movements as he rose from his chair, were not lost upon Lemasle. The least observant of men could not help but be conscious of them.

"Is it possible that, after all, Mademoiselle will not leave the castle?" he asked.

"Nothing will prevent her going to Passey, Lemasle, I trust you to see that she goes in safety." And then as Herrick reached the door he turned back. "You must take a strong force. The rabble is fickle, and may think to please me by jeering at her. Should any cur fling so much as a sneering word at her, drag him to his knees, captain, make him kiss the dust before her, humble himself, and crave her pardon. If, as you let him go, you so far forget yourself as to give him a sound cuff to help him to better manners in the future, no great harm will be done. There is more vindictiveness in me than you supposed."

With the stripping off of her wedding garments a gladness had come into Christine's heart, a feeling that in casting them aside she had escaped some great disaster. Herrick was hardly absent from her thoughts for a moment. She had credited him with an overweening ambition; had judged all his actions in this light. She could no longer believe that he was prompted by mere ambition. He had fought for, and saved Montvilliers. He had returned to save her from a disastrous wedding. She knew now that others about her had schemed and plotted for their own ends, and that, whatever motive lay under Roger Herrick's actions, the love of this land was deep rooted in his heart. He had indeed taught her a lesson in patriotism. She did not understand him, how could she? but the outlines of the man, as it were, began to take a different and a larger shape. They were indefinite still, she could not fit the Roger Herrick who had knelt to her offering his service with the Duke who seemed desirous of bending everyone and everything to his will. His splendid courage before the Church of St. Etienne had fascinated her. The man she had come to marry, all the men about her, seemed to sink into insignificance beside this one commanding figure; she felt that he must be obeyed, and forgot to be resentful. The words he had spoken to her were stern ones, yet there was a look in his eyes, something in the touch of his hand as he helped her into the carriage, which had thrilled her. Then had come that day in the hall. Surely he had excuse enough to avenge himself, not upon herself, she had not expected him to do that, but upon Felix and de Bornais. She had to confess that his judgments upon them were more lenient than probably her own would have been. Too lenient, surely, for the swift tragedy of Jean's death had followed. As surely as the downward stroke of that cruel dagger had taken the dwarf's life, so surely had it shown to Christine, in an instant of time, what this man Roger Herrick really was to her. Real grief had cast her upon her knees beside Jean, but there was wild joy in her heart that it was not Herrick who lay there.

They had hurried Felix roughly from the hall, and she had left Herrick bending over the body of the man who had died to save him. He had not spoken to her, he had not replied to the words she had whispered as Jean died; their eyes had met for a moment, and she had not seen him since. Lucille, her only companion, was as close a prisoner as herself, so nothing of the gossip of the castle was brought to Christine. One of those who watched and waited upon her told her that the Count was confined in the South Tower, and gradually Felix began to come into her thoughts. For prisoners there had ever been a sinister meaning in that semi-circular cell in the South Tower. Death had so often been the only road to freedom from it. Felix deserved death. It was almost certain that the Duke had decided upon his death. It was just, and yet Christine shrank from the contemplation of it. By reason of Roger Herrick's coming, Felix had suffered terrible humiliation; there was surely some excuse for him. There was, Herrick himself had admitted it, but that, of course, was before Jean had been murdered. Yes, it was just that Felix should die, and yet he was her cousin, the man whom a few days ago she had been willing to marry. Was she not in some measure responsible for what had happened? The thought that in an hour or two she would have left Vayenne, would be powerless to plead for mercy, made her send impulsively to Herrick and pray for an audience.

She had sent Lucille into another room, and was standing by the window clad in her riding habit ready for her journey to Passey when the door opened, and a soldier, saluting, announced the Duke.

Christine remembered that last time he had come unannounced.

For a moment Herrick paused upon the threshold. She had been dressed as she was now when he had first seen her. She had looked like this when he had first offered her his service. Nothing could suit the pretty head so well as that astrakhan cap. It was with an effort that he advanced slowly toward her; he would like to have caught her in his arms, and stopped all remonstrance with his kisses on her lips.

"You sent for me, mademoiselle."

Now he had come Christine hardly knew what to say to him, or how best to say it. Could she move him to mercy if she were humble enough?

"I wanted to thank you," she said, "for your leniency to me and – and to others. You might have chosen a harder prison for me than the Château of Passey. It has its associations for me. You thought of that when you chose it."

"Naturally I had reasons for choosing it," he answered.

"My lord, Count Felix is – "

"Mademoiselle, for these three days past the Count's name has been ringing in my ears. Spare me more of it. They shout in the streets at me for his death. In the castle they are insistent that he should die. I cannot forget that Jean's love for me saved my life, and Jean is dead."

"Neither do I forget it; still, I would plead for the Count."

"Surely he merits death?"

"Yes; still, I would plead for him," said Christine earnestly. "You know – you said – you have admitted that for his plotting, at least, there was some excuse. He was mad with the uncontrollable madness of a desperate man."

"It was murder, mademoiselle, no more, no less; that the victim was not the one he hoped for makes little difference."

"Yet I plead for him," she persisted. "You have already shown great generosity; show it once more, if not to him, to me. Felix is my own flesh and blood. How far I may be responsible for his madness I do not know. He had lost everything, his kingdom, his honor, the woman he has always desired to marry. In his own fashion he may have loved me. I had plotted with him against you. Truly in a large degree I am responsible, and I pray you have mercy. Make my punishment greater if you will, so that you save Felix. Banish him, anything, but do not kill him."

"You forget that the state has laws, and that the Duke but serves the state," he said quietly.

"You are all-powerful, and you know it. On my knees I beg this thing." And she suddenly dropped at his feet. "I beg it of the Duke, the Duke I promise to serve should it presently please him to give me freedom. You have taught me patriotism. I would I had the power I once had to make my service a worthy gift."

"Mademoiselle, I doubt not the people still love you," said Herrick, putting out his hand to raise her; but she would not see it.

"You believe that? You believe that I might still be a danger?"

"Am I not sending you to the Château of Passey? If you were of small account in Vayenne, why should I banish you from the city?"

There was a moment's pause, then she said quietly. "Not long ago in this room you asked me to make a sacrifice, it was your own word, and I refused. I have learned much since then. I will do anything to serve the Duke and my country."

Herrick remembered the manner in which he had asked her to marry him. For an instant now he nearly lost control of himself, almost bent down and caught her up in his arms to tell her all that was in his heart, but he quickly had himself in hand again.

"Mademoiselle," he said, gently raising her, "I do not like to have you kneeling to me, and I will not bargain with you in this fashion. For the present Felix must remain where he is, but this I promise, you shall have speech with me again before he is condemned."

"Thank you," she said. "Before he is condemned; you mean before – "

"There is no juggling in the words," Herrick answered. "Is it too much to ask you to trust me?"

"I trust the word of the Duke," she said.

"I will leave you, mademoiselle. I hear your escort assembling in the court-yard. You may find the Château of Passey a less dreary prison than you imagine."

A little later Christine and Lucille rode out of the great gates with Gaspard Lemasle and a large escort, and from a corner of the terrace Roger Herrick watched them go. His world had moved since the night he had seen her ride out upon the same journey when she went to bring the pale scholar of Passey to Vayenne.